PS 3505 
,A7755 S6 
1916 




Class _J_AJtLL^A- 



4 f.'f -S 



CQsmicm DEPosm 



SONGS OF CREELABEG 



SONGS OF CREELABEG 



BY 

REV. P. J. CARROLL, C.S.C. 




NEW YORK 

THE DEVIN-ADAIR COMPANY 



/.I)'^ 






Copyright, 1916, by 
The Devin-Adaib Company 




JAN -2 1917 



3CLA453395 



i 



To My Mother 

Who made the morn of life so sweet 
The day is fragrant yet. 



FOREWORD 

You who, every day, in every work to 
which you set your hands, pause for a 
little to look back over space and time to 
one spot your heart keeps green for- 
ever; 

Who dream of shamrocks where the 
cactus grows, or fancy the fringed 
daisies are beneath the snow; 

Who hear below the rumble of fac- 
tories the whisper of the river, and the 
call of the cuckoo above the noise of 
cities; 

Who grow lonely som,etimes for quiet 
places back home where the gray dew 
lingers late, and where the blue-blos- 
somed clover is sweet: 

For you are sung these Songs of 
Creelabeg. 



CONTENTS 

PAOC 

LONESOME 3 

GOING HOME 5 

EQUALITY 8 

THE EXILED DEAD 10 

THE FAEEWELL 12 

TOM 22 

THE ALTAR BOY 25 

MY HEAVEN 27 

WADING 29 

DEAE CHRIST 31 

THE WRECKS OF DEPARTED YEARS . . 32 

THE RICHES OF POVERTY 34 

BY THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND .... 35 

A JUNE DREAM 36 

THE CALL TO DERRY 38 

JOHNEEN 47 

WHEN THE WEATHER'S GRAY .... 50 



PAGE 

TEARS AND BLOOD 52 

SHANAGOLDEN 54 

TO-DAY 56 

A MEMORY 58 

THE OLD LOVE 60 

THE ROSE GIRL 63 

MOTHER ERIN 64 

DREAM SONG 67 

WHEN YOU ARE OLD 69 

LOOKING BACK 71 

A NEW YEAR'S WISH ..73 

REAPING 75 

MONA'S MESSAGE 77 

TO THE POET 84 

LINCOLN 86 

MOTHER OF ART 88 

IF SORROW COME 90 

OUR LADY OF THE DOME 92 

MY PRAYER 94 

IN HER EXILE 96 

THE LEGEND OF THE HARP 98 

LAUREEN 102 

viii 



PAaa 
TO THE HOLY KINGS 104 

A LITTLE KINDLY DEED 106 

MAEGEEY MAY 114 

THE EISHEEMAN'S WIFE 116 

LADY DAY IN IRELAND 118 

ST. PATRICK'S TREASURE 121 

THE SOUL OF THE SHAMROCK . . . .122 

TO A DEAD PRIEST 125 

THE LIGHT OF THEIR LIFE 128 

THE PERFECT PEACE 129 

THE PERFECT SERVICE 131 

KNOCKANARE 134 

THE HEART OF THE WIND 137 

THE VISION OF THE NIGHT 141 

THE IRISH JUNE 143 

EARLY MASS IN IRELAND 145 

NOVEMBER . . 147 

THE SECOND SPRING 149 

CREELA BAY 152 

GOLDEN JUBILEE WISH 154 

THE CRY OF THE HEART 156 



SONGS OF CREELABEG 



LONESOME 

Ochone, so far away I am 'tis no know- 
ing, 
My Creelabeg, if I'll ever see you 
now! 
'Tis Spring there in the valley, the west 
wind blowing 
The turf boats home again from Bal- 
lyow. 

Movrone, 'tis sad I am for the brown 
sods burning, 
Of wild nights, and we wondering how 
It fares with the boats through the dark 
home returning. 
Before the wintry winds from Bal- 
lyow. 

[3] 



Machree, could I but watch the wild 

geese flying 
Back from the gray sea over the blue 

hill's brow, 
My breath would come more easy were I 

dying, 
And they flying — flying home from 
Ballyow ! 



[4] 



GOING HOME 

'Tis worth the score of years to be re- 
turning 
Back o'er a smooth sea with a track 
of foam. 
There's gray frost on the pane, a turf 
fire burning, 
And young eyes watching for the 
coming home. 

Ah, you'd be glad, too, to hear the en- 
gines pounding. 
And you going back where white fields 
are spread. 

[5] 



Your heart would run before, so you'd 
soon be rounding 
The Moorna hills, behind near Kerry 
Head. 

Good-bye to the city where my heart was 
pining 
For a speck of the sky, for a blade of 
dewy grass! 
In Creelabeg there's a gentle sun a- 
shining 
Between the showers that dance for 
you and pass. 

Ah, Creelabeg! I can't live on without 
you, 
So I'm going back, with Christmas in 
the air. 

[6] 



I went from you, but never did I doubt 
you,— 
Put fresh turf on, dears: I will soon 
be there! 



[7] 



EQUALITY 

Full many lie in lowly graves, 
With never grassy mound above them ; 

Or sleep uncoffined in the waves, 
Afar from those at home that love 
them. 

A few whom fickle Glory wins. 

Whose deeds are writ for worlds to 
con them, 
Have tombs in which are hid their sins, 
With all their virtues chiselled on 
them. 

But e'en the thickness of the tomb 
Shall dread Corruption pierce to find 
them ; 

[8] 



He does not spare the thrice-sealed 
gloom 
Because men leave a name behind 
them. 



[9] 



THE EXILED DEAD 

They sleep where Southern breezes 
blow — 
No bard is left to tell their story, — 
Or where the mountains crowned with 
snow 
Shall never lose their virgin glory. 

They lie in lone forgotten field 
Where tyrants ' chains were rent asun- 
der; 
And, wild Ocean, could you yield 
The white bones that are scattered 
under, 

[10] 



You would give back unfinished lives 
To her whose widowed heart is brok- 
en, — 
The vows of lovers, prayers of wives. 
Whose last farewells were never 
spoken. 

Be mute, ye banished ones who lie 
With neither mound nor tomb above 
you! 
The ocean breezes round you sigh, 
And God's sweet angels guard and 
love you. 



[11] 



THE FAREWELL 

The railway station of a large West- 
ern city. Kathleen, going hack to Ire- 
land, is saying good-bye to her young 
brother, Maurice, whom she promises to 
send for in the spring. 

KATHLEEN" 

The smoke of factories, hiding sun and 

sky 
Through all the lonesome day, — yes, that 

is why 
I'm going back. To live in this wild city 
All the slow years, nor ever hear the 

ditty 
The happy thrush sings o'er the late 

June grass: 

[12] 



That's why my heart is pining. So I 

^ pass 
From out these sunless streets to fields 

I know, 
Where shamrocks lie beneath the daisy 
snow. 

MATJKICE 

Ah, sister, and you'll hear the gull's 

sharp call 
Far out to sea, from the cliffs of Aher- 

fall! 

KATHLEEN 

And, dear, 'tis sorry I am you can not 

come, 
That your poor ears must hear the dizzy 

hum 
Of wheels within the black, unlovely 

building ; 

[13] 



That you will long in vain for the sun 

that's guilding 
The cross of Athery. And so good-bye, 
Brother of mine, your life in the morn ! 

Don't cry. 
My own! I'll surely send for you in 

spring, 
When the daisies show, when hiding 

corncrakes fling 
The dew from off their backs. Eemem- 

ber, love, 
When your young heart is breaking, see 

above 
This smoke, the sky of Creelabeg, the 

Deel 
Mad-leaping down the rocks for woe, for 

weal, 
To mother sea. Ah, thus she calleth 

thee, 

[14] 



My blue-heart stream, as Ireland calleth 

me! 
My sorul is there already. Lovely earth, 
Green Ireland, where the fairies had 

their birth. 
The kind South soothes thee with her 

wind's caress; 
The chanting sea doth sprinkle thee and 

bless, 
"With violet mist, adown each valleyed 

aisle, 
As brief clouds veil the sky and the good 

sun's smile! 

MAUEICE 

Will you think of me when you see the 

wild geese flying 
In wedges to the west where the sun lies 

dying? 

[15] 



KATHLEElf 

Don't doubt, machree; thougli now you 

do not come, 
you'll come, surely, when the brown 

bees bum 
Above the wheat field in the young 

spring greening; 
When the white-thorn bush, down o'er 

the flush pond leaning. 
Drinks up the sap and feels the wine of 

life! 
Don't let your heart down, though the 

maddening strife 
Beat at your senses all the smoky day. 
dream of Creelabeg and Creela Bay; 
The salt wind laughing up the Deel ; the 

fog 
Shrouding with mantle dark the heather 

bog 

[16 1 



By the slopes of Knockanare ; the dark- 
eyed men 

Who toil in yellowing fields the day, and 
then, 

With falling night, walk down the head- 
lands home. 

And, brother, listen : through the fog and 
foam 

I'll see your wistful face, your black 
eyes shining, 

And the heart in me will pine that you 
are pining. 

Ne'er will the wild geese fly across the 
wind. 

With heads out-thrust, to the marsh 
fields behind 

Kilbeg, but I will pray for your return- 
ing; [sods burning 

And, Maurice dear, I'll keep the brown 

[17] 



Till you are home again in showery 

spring, 
When flush streams flow to sea a-mur- 

muring ! 

MATJEICE 

sister mine, and soon your hands will 

catch 
The soft, warm rain a-dripping from 

the thatch! 
You'll mock the cuckoo from the alder 

calling 
At the edge of night, when the early dew 

is falling! 

KATHLEEN 

Hush, dear ! The time is now ! Ah, so I 
press 

My lips to yours ! I grudge my happi- 
ness, 

[18] 



And you with moist eyes dreaming hour 
on hour 

Of the heath hills and the wind of Ahen- 
dour! 

And know, dear brother, God loves Ire- 
land best, 

For she's been always meek when sor- 
row-pressed. 

While yet a maid she was wedded unto 
Grief; 

True wife was she, nor ever sought relief 

Down the great years. All the fair chil- 
dren born 

Of her have felt the thong of hate and 
scorn ; 

Yet have they loved her in the foggy 
dawn, 

In the hot noon, and when the young 
stars shone. 

[19] 



Then, when her husband Grief unlovely 

grew, 
The kind God in His golden heaven 

knew. 
And sent Grief's sister, Joy, to charm 

her pain. 
Till Grief unlovely, lovely grew again. 

MAUEICE 

'Tis far to there, — and will you hear my 
call 

Above the Kerry wind and the water- 
fall? 

KATHLEEN 

I'll hear, and send for you when the 

Shannon wide 
Is songless 'neath the weight of April 

tide; 

[20] 



When o'er the drills the buds begin to 

show, 
And healing showers bring back the van- 
ished glow 
To the land's face. Don't let your heart 

doubt, love; 
For surely, in the spring, the clouds 

above 
The Galty mountains will refresh your 

eyes. 
When you are home, and under Irish 

skies — 
hush, machree! It is the panting 

train! 

MAUEICE 

Ah, the foggy days until we meet again ! 



[21] 



TOM 

Ay, he was one o' the Force, was 
Tom, 
So tall in his suit o' blue, 
You'd stop at the crossin* 
Where he was a-bossin' 
The job the mornin' through! 



The people o' town were fond o' Tom, 
For he was obligin' an' kind. 
'Twas Tom here an' Tom there, 
'Twas Tom everywhere ; 
But Tom, sure he didn't mind. 

[22] 



A big man with, a big heart was Tom — 
Ay, that's the truth this day! 

But the big an' the small 

Must answer the call, 
When the hour comes to march away. 

How great he looked in the hospital 
bed— 
An oak blown down in the dark! 
" 'Tis hard pullin' — I doubt 
If I'll ever pull out," 
Tom whispered to Sister Mark. 

The priest, he came an' anointed Tom, 
An' *' heard him," an' helped him 
pray. 
**Now," said Tom, "an' I go 
'Tis all aequal; I know 
I'm right with the Lord this day!" 

[23] 



Well, the boys were there when they 
buried Tom — 
I'm manin' the min in blue. 
''Torn, we'd like you to sleep 
Where the shamrocks keep," 
Said the priest — an' thim words were 
true. 

Mo boucail, Tom, you've a rest from the 
beat 
Down there where the dust is fine! 
Sleep aisy, Machree, 
Sure your Guard 'an will see 
You don't lose your place in the line! 



[24] 



THE ALTAR BOY 

A dark sky, a gray rain, 

Boy lips set in smile; 
Marching feet to organ beat, 

Of children down the aisle. 
''Farewell," murmured the priest, 

"Boy of the altar band; 
You served inside the altar rail. 
You lighted torch, you lifted veil — 

You almost touched His hand!" 

A small grave, a still place, 
Where cedars wave farewell. 

Bees will hum when June days come. 
Winds will sink and swell. 

[25 1 



Safe home, altar lad, 

Boy of the surplice band! 
For aye to serve inside the rail, — 
With stars for torches, sky for veil,— 
For aye to touch His hand ! 



[26] 



MY HEAVEN 

Dear Mother of God, to that far heaven 
of thine 
I dare not hope to reach; 
Bowed with the memory of these sins 
of mine, 
A lesser I beseech. 

I do not ask such crowning as thy stars. 
Nor the gold-dust at thy feet; 

just to hear, far-coming, the faint 
bars 
Of angel music sweet. 

[27] 



Among the least, where in my lowliness 

'Tis fitting I should be, 
From there — a humbler heaven — thy 
blessedness 

I am content to see. 



[28] 



WADING 

Lord, little it matters how narrow the 
span 
Of the river I cross to Thee : 
The palm is not meted to any man 
For the years since his weary wade be- 
gan 
Through this river he wades like me. 

'Tis the ceaseless fight 'gainst the cur- 
rent's flow 
That is writ in that Heart of Thine; 

And the bleeding feet from the rocks 
below, 

[29] 



And the hands benumbed from the blasts 
that blow, 
That are healed by Thy touch benign. 

Lord, light me along: the mid-river is 
deep. 
The shallows lie near the shore; 
My failing footsteps from gliding keep 
With the adverse currents that round me 
sweep, 
Till I've waded life's river o'er. 



[30] 



DEAR CHRIST 

Dear Christ, Yon left Your paradise 

To wash away our sin: 
We barred the doors against You, 
Christ, 

And would not let You in. 

Dear Christ, You would abide with us — 
But, ah, there was no room! 

We nailed You to a cross, dear Christ, 
And left You in the gloom. 



[31] 



THE WRECKS OF DEPARTED 
YEARS 

Low in the depths of the murmuring 
sea 
Lie buried the wrecks of departed 

years ; 
And betimes, when the moon through 

the storm-cloud peers, 
Above the night wind the mariner 
hears 
The wails of the coffinless dead at sea. 

Under the waves of the sea of life 
The ghosts of humanity, sin-wrecked, 
sleep; 

[32] 



And anon when meek saints their 

vigils keep, 
They hear the angels in heaven weep 
For the sunken souls in the sea of life. 



[33] 



THE RICHES OF POVERTY 

You up there in your gilded hall, 

With glitter of lights 

'Mid revel of nights, 
Think you have life, love, happiness — 
all. 

I, down here at my cottage door, 

"Would not take your gold 

Nor your gems untold 
For my babe that plays on this earthen 
floor. 



[34] 



BY THE GEAVE OF A FEIEND 

Crooning winds round a naked tree, 
Lowering clouds and a swish of rain: 

Sleep on! Not all sad minstrelsy 
Will wake you back to my life again. 

Dank leaves sunk in sodden grass, 
Tree arms heavy with fallen rain, — 

The sun, the cloud will come, will pass : 
You will not come to my life again. 

Gusts of wind and a dreary day. 
The clinging cold of November rain: 

The buds will spring with a future May, 
But you — not you to my life again ! 

[35] 



A JUNE DREAM 

The garden is summer-sweet with roses 

This golden June; 
The bee buzzes above where the lizard 
reposes 
This slumberous hour of noon. 
The sky is up near heaven, 
With never a cloud to soil its face of 
blue. 
'Tis so warm and still to-day that even 
The spangled butterfly will scarce flit 
away from you. 

Now the soul is at peace; and Fancy, 
dreaming 
Of cooling shade, 

[36] 



Weaves a web of song out of the seem- 
ing— 
For so all songs are made. 
Our God is tender and good 

To give us the sun and the sky and the 
summer long, 
And, in a silent hour, the mood 

Of regret for a vanished hour that 
finds its relief in song. 



[37] 



THE CALL TO DERBY 

A Vision in the Abbey 

I 

'Tis quiet within, where mosses cling to 

sunken stones, 
Where tall weeds blossom in summer 

above dissolving bones. 
The Angel Silence invites us, ere the 

doors are bolted fast. 
To leave the noisy Present and visit the 

dreaming Past. 

n 

Dark and vacant niches in walls grown 

old and gray; 
A chajicel filled with echoes — the psalms 

of a vanished day; 

[38] 



The smoke of incense rolling from cen- 
sers that will not rust, 

Swung by spirit hands that never can 
fall into dust; 

Lights ablaze on altars carved of the 
poet's dream: 

The heavy hours of the real melt into the 
hours that seem. 



in 

Out of their graves arise the monks that 

have slumbered long, — 
They who chastened the harsh, wild 

ways of our fathers strong: 
Colman, the man of learning; Columba, 

the maker of song ; 
They who taught Toil's blessing to many 

a savage race, 

[39] 



Spending the night in riotous wassail, 
the day in the chase, — 

Teuton and Saxon and Dane and Briton 
with painted face. 

IV 

Not saints of conventional nimbus with 

vision-lifted eyes. 
But men who battled for man, and 

taught mankind to rise. 
Brave with the force of truth, although 

a truth should sting, 
Driving a bandit back, rebuking a lecher- 
ous king. 
They sit in stalls long vacant, and sing 

from the sacred page 
Psalms that have quickened with feeling 

the pulse of peasant and sage: 
Columba and Gall and Colman, — the 

lights of a bygone age. 

[40] 



V 

The psalms are ended now, and down the 
aisle 
Columba glides, bard of the sainted 
band, 
Who from Ionian exile many a mile 
Yearned over-seas for haunting Der- 
ryland. 



He glances where we stand in shadow 
dim; 
His gray eyes yearn as when they 
searched the sea. 
From the land's white edge to the hori- 
zon's rim, 
To catch one glimpse, fair Derryland, 
of thee! 

[41] 



* ' brothers, I am waiting all the years — 
My bones in dusty darkness, so 
long! — 
Till out of Time one rose-red Dawn ap- 
pears, 
And all this land will quicken unto 
song! 

''When the old days of Freedom shall 
return, 
And men shall walk anew highways 
of light ; 
On every cairn triumphant fires will 
burn. 
To glorify the waking out of night. 

"When cowled monks again will ponder 
o*er 
High truths to light the searchings of 
the race; 

[42] 



Scholars aflame will hither as of yore, 
And Knowledge find in her accustomed 
place. 

"Great Malachy and Brian,— they are 
gone, 
And all the old kings of a kingly race. 
Of all the silvered bards that sang, not 
one 
Is left to sing the new day large with 
grace. 

*'And thou, my Derry, kissed by a sky 
serene. 
Which oft my gray eyes yearned to 
gaze upon. 
Thou hast forgot the dark-haired 
mother-queen 
Who loved and nourished thee in ages 
gone. 

[43] 



• ' Derryland, thou nursling of the sea, 
Thou hast forgot thy sons of olden 
days, 
Ere yet the Saxon came and ravished 
thee, 
And turned thy footsteps into narrow- 
ing ways! 

''Thy brave O'Neill, O'Donnell, Owen 
Roe, — 
The knightliest men that ever belted 
sword ! 
Thou hast forgot their valorous deeds, 
and lo, 
To thy white heart dost clasp an alien 
horde ! 

''The Dawn will break, and her fair 
children all 
Will sing once more the paean of lib- 
erty— 

[44] 



Meath, Wexford, Limerick, blue-hilled 
Donegal ; 
But thou, my Derry, — wilt thou silent 
be?" 



VI 

Gloom and spirit silence, the red sun low 

in the sky. 
Rooks with heads out-thrust seeking 

their nests hard by; 
Ancient tombs, a chancel, pillars fallen 

and gray, 
Figures carved on stone, and great 

names worn away. 
The sainted monks have vanished, the 

hour of prayer is spent, 
And eager Fancy follows the way of the 

dead they went. 

[45] 



But the Angel Hope remains throngli the 

watches of all the night, 
While hovers dark-winged Doubt, then 

vanishes out of sight. 
Hope watches the trembling East for the 

rose to redden the sky. 
When Derry shall wake to the light of a 

day that shall not die. 



[46] 



JOHNEEN 

There's ten o' ye now, an' twenty long 

years in between 
From Maurice, the man o' the house, to 

little Johneen ; 
But I wouldn't part one, not for all the 
rich pearls of a queen. 
Ah, my heart craves ye all! 
For ye light up the gloom o ' the place. 
Like Our Lord lit the dark o ' the cave 
by the light of His face. 

Yes, ten o' ye all, an' Maurice as tall as 

a pine; 
Then Mary, come Candlemas Day, will 

be finishin' nine; 

[47] 



An' Johneen — come lay your little 
heart here against mine! 
Yeh, 'tis I loves ye all: 
Maurice an' Mike an' Kathleen, 
An', pulse o' my heart, yourself, my 
little Johneen I 



When the house does be empty the long, 

lonesome stretch o ' the day, 
With only Johneen in the cradle a-sleep- 

in' away. 
The tears do come down from my eyes, 
an' I tryin' to pray! 
I dream o' ye all. 
An' the crosses God sends, an' our 

needs — 
Sweet Saviour, forgive me! — ye come 
between me an' the Beads. 

[48] 



But, thank God, sure ye 're hearty an' 

brimful of innocent joys. 
An' o' nights round the kitchen ye fill 

up the house with yer noise. 
Virgin Pure keep ye innocent always, my 
girls and my boys ! 
Ah, I've mothered ye all 
Down those twenty long years in be- 
tween, 
From Maurice, who stoops at the door, 
to little Johneen ! 



[49] 



WHEN THE WEATHER'S GRAY 

When the weather's gray, and clouds are 
raining, raining, 
weave a dream of Summer into a 
song! 
Then what to thee the trees to winds 
complaining? 
The dawn is in thy heart, the day is 
long. 

When the weather 's gray, think of the 
glad lark singing 
Above the clouds, just below the an- 
gels' feet! 

[50] 



Think of the lavish rose to the desert 
flinging 
Her gift of incense: still is the good 
rose sweet. 

Keep light within thy heart, thy head 
uplifted : 
The sleeping buds will wake at the 
touch of May; 
The sky's face will be blue when clouds 
are drifted, — 
Keep hope within thy heart when the 
weather's gray. 



[51] 



TEARS AND BLOOD 

Mid the golden sheaves of his harvest 
field, 

He hears the call from far. 
Then goes, himself to be the yield. 

Of the blood-smeared reaper War. 
Then here's to War, rough- visaged, 
grim, 

Whose widows trail the years! 
drink, ye kings ! you've filled it brim, — 

The sparkling cup of tears! 

On a blackened land, for its million dead. 
He dreams of his fields afar. 

The stark, still corpses round him spread 
Are the sheaves of the reaper War. 

[52] 



Then here's to War, blood-spattered, 
grim, 

Begot of a mad king's mood! 
drink, ye kings, who've filled it brim. 

The red, red cup of blood ! 



[53] 



SHANAGOLDEN 

Calm sea, thy sweet breath's over 
Shanagolden, 
My dream hill, set with daisies Spring 
has brought ; 
Home of a hoary bard in ages olden. 
Who left his land a legacy of thought. 

He saw sage kings where daisies white 
are growing 
In Shanagolden by the big sea's edge ; 
He spoke with saints where yonder herds 
are lowing, 
Their glossy necks high thrust above 
the hedge. 

[54] ' 



He walked with queens down the slopes 
of Shanagolden, 
When queens wore purple in a regal 
isle. 
Now sleep they 'neath the oaks, vine- 
girt and olden; 
And o'er their dust the regal violets 
smile. 

Shanagolden, hill of youthful dream- 

My "Winter hither flies on darkling 

wing! 
But, Shana-land, the daisies fringed are 

gleaming 
O'er thy dream slopes. Ah, there 'tis 

always Spring I 



[55] 



TO-DAY 

Father, guide these faltering steps to- 
day, 
Lest I should fall! 
To-morrow? Ah, to-morrow's far 
away, — 
To-day is all. 

If I but keep my feet till evening time. 
Night will bring rest; 

Then, stronger grown, to-morrow I shall 
climb 
With newer zest. 

[56] 



may I stoop to no unwortliiiiess, 

In pain or sorrow, 
Nor bear from yesterday one bitterness 

On to to-morrow! 

Then, Fatber, help these searching eyes 
to-day 

The path to see; 
Be patient with my feebleness, — the way 

Is steep to Thee! 



[57] 



A MEMORY 

A grassy grave, an ivied wall, 
The gold of an Autumn day ; 

Leaves in the listless winds that fall, 

Flitting butterfly, robin call, 

A far sky streaked with gray. 

A lonely grave o'er treasured bones, 
A heart that will not beat; 

The sun on the lizard adrowse on the 
stones. 

Sentinel pines, the slumberous tones 
Of insects in the heat. 

[58] 



An unmarked grave in a sunny place, 

With gold on every leaf. 
Time, too, left thee the Autumn grace 
Of gold in the heart and sun on the 
face — 

But Autumn all too brief! 



[59] 



THE OLD LOVE 

'Twas cloudy an' cMU the mornin' I 
married my John, 
In gray Knockanare ; 
But the sun was deep down in my heart 
when the priest made us one, 
With pledges an' blessin' an' prayer. 
I promised I'd love an' obey; 

An' John, that he'd love an' be true. 
we loved, we were true, an' the 
gray 
Of an old love, like an old wine, is 
rarer than new! 

[60] 



The feet o * the rain were a-dance at the 
cross o' the road, 
As I went by his side ; 
An' the heart in me danced out o' joy, 
like the rain, till there glowed 
The blush that my heart couldn't hide. 
For I'd promised I'd love an' obey. 

An' John, that he'd love an' be true. 
we loved, we were true, an' the gray 
Of an old love, like an old wine, is 
richer than new! 

The sun was bright gold on the mornin' 
I buried my John, 
In gray Knockanare; 
But the rain was deep down in my heart, 
for I knew he was gone 
"When the priest said the blessin' an* 
prayer. 

[61] 



Then I promised my John where he lay, 
That for all the long years I'd be true. 

I love, I 'm true ; for the gray 
Of an old love, like an old wine, is 
stronger than new! 



[62] 



THE ROSE GIEL 

She struggles about in the crowded 
places, 
Pauses a moment and proffers one; 
She heeds not the stare of a thousand 
faces, 
But calls out roses till all are gone. 

Homeward at last when the hot day 
closes, 
Her young face clouded with child 
regret : 
Sorrow not, maiden, though gone thy 
roses. 
Their fragrance lingers about thee 
yet! 

[63] 



MOTHER ERIN 

'Tis not rich you are : no jewels shine in 
your hair; 

Your face is pinched, macJiree, your 
hands are bare ; 

Your voice that rang silver sweet in sun- 
nier years 

Is buried deep in your heart — ^below 
your tears. 

Your dark eyes search the sea for the 

sons of your breast 
Who sailed down Kerry Head away to 

the West. 

[64] 



You watch the rim of the sea till your 

tired eyes burn, 
For the men who sailed away, but never 

return. 

You're gray, movrone: the wrinkles 

fret your face; 
Care has crippled your feet and stolen 

your grace. 
How in ages gone you leaped down the 

ridges green, 
Your great eyes shining like the stars, 

my Queen! 

'Tis scarred you are from the battles for 
holy Truth, 

Which Patrick brought you in your vir- 
gin youth. 

[65] 



You've clung to Truth, with your eyes 

on Calvary, 
And mothered the scattered Race of 

Eternity. 

We love you, mother machree, for the 

shames you've borne 
For the love of shining Truth, all your 

white flesh torn. 
We kiss the prints of the lash across 

your face. 
Our own dear Erin, mother of the race ! 



[66] 



DREAM SONG 

A mellow sun within the heart when 
days 
Are wet and dark; 
Still fields to wander where the footsteps 
raise 
The sleeping lark; 
Stars flung with lavish hand across the 
sky; 
And memories strong 
Of happy hours, that back in life's dawn 
lie, 
When every hedge was sweet with 
flower and song. 

[67] 



A million suns lie just beyond the Mil 

Where the dream child looks; 
A million songs in river deeps are still 

Unsung in books. 
The heart will pant for heather field and 
STin 
And houseless plain: 
"We sing because we must, like streams 
that run 
Down the waste hills to join the misty 
main. 



[68] 



WHEN YOU ARE OLD 

When you are old, may all your mem- 
ories 
Be fragrant of the scent 
Of holy deeds : pains you have tried to 
ease, 
And helping to the spent ; 

Serene indifference to what gossips 
tell, 
More laggard than sloth to herald 
The shame of one above the clouds who 
fell 
From star-height to our world. 

[69] 



When you're grown old, God grant your 
memories be 

Of justice, gentle speech. 
White truth and tolerance; vast charity 

For all men — and for each. 



[70] 



LOOKING BACK 

A wide field and a west wind blowing 
At Boherana, place of sun and 
dreams ; 
And 'tis I that wish this day that I were 
going 
Back there where rushes bend to kiss 
the streams. 

A heart-ache for the thrush and young 
clover, 
Where child feet make rings on the 
gray dew. 

[71] 



One morn to the day, — ^heigh-ho, 'tis 
over, 
And all your dreanas won't bring it 
back to you! 



[72] 



A NEW YEAE'S WISH 

God keep your feet in paths where 
sounds 
Of quiet laughter come; 
Where robins linger longest; where 
abounds 
A wealth of green, tree-murmur, in- 
sect-hum. 

God keep your heart unruffled when you 
feel 
The fret of circumstance, 
Lest any smallness you may witness 
steal 
A tithe of your large sympathy, per- 
chance. 

[73] 



God give you, at the close of day, His 
heaven ; 
But not, dear friend, too soon! 
So much to do, your all has not been 
given: 
'Tis still, dear friend, the early after- 
noon. 



[74] 



EEAPING 

At dawn, when you awake, a new day 

given, 
Rise and make haste to field; perhaps 

your Heaven 
Must be achieved before again you 

sleep. 
Then be not laggard: this is your day 

to reap! 

Stay close to field this morn: accusing 
years 

May point to trampled stems and scat- 
tered ears. 

[75] 



Keep up your heart, your harvest still 

is growing; 
Then reap this day: ah, tomorrow 

there's no knowing! 

Oh, reap, nor count the sheaves ! Some 

other field 
May promise to your sickle larger yield. 
Reward is in the striving, not the gain ; 
God weighs the love and not the store of 

grain ! 



[761 



MONA'S MESSAGE 

The south wind flung her veil of haze 
across 
The face of Carrig — silent hill where 
kings 
In purple lie below the hoary moss ! 
Where many a night the priestly ocean 
sings 
Sad requiems for a royal dead who hold 
No kingly council more in halls of gold ! 

Young Mona, dark-eyed, sailing to the 
west, 
"Where lie the fields of plenty, keeps 
her eyes 

[77] 



On fading Ireland, till they fondly rest 
On Carrig hill. A thousand memories 

rise 
For the dear slopes that regal ashes 

keep, 
For kingly heads so still in oenturied 

sleep ! 

A gull, with waving wings from the far 

sea 
Eeturning, floats beside the stately 

ship. 
"Dear bird," calls Mona, ''wait and 

bear for me 
One last farewell to Ireland, e'er I slip 
From the sweet embrace of all I love 
On the fairest earth 'neath the dear 

God's heaven above! 

[78] 



''0 say to Ireland this for me: 'I give 
My heart to you,— my young heart 

torn with grief. 
The days are bleak, for I can never live 
One other spring where elders are in 

leaf. 
The Night will bring the stars and Dawn 

the dew. 
But I'll be exiled from my bright heaven 

— you ! ' 

"0 tell my Ireland, gull, 'tis many the 
time 
I'll think I hear the hiding meadow- 
lark 
Waiting like some mute bard to burst in 
rhyme. 
I'll hear the thrush's song at early 
dark 

[79] 



In that far, azure world of his where he 
Has stars to harken to his minstrelsy. 

''I'll see Longh Derrig when the breath 

of June 
Wakes gentle laughter on her placid 

face; 
When low she whispers of a still, warm 

noon 
Sweet words to the green rush that 

bows with grace 
To kiss her cooling lips ; when the white 

swan 
Dreams on her bosom in mid-summer 

dawn. 

* ' The rings of green the romping fairies 
make 
Will deck my dream fields when I muse 
apart. 

[80] 



The shamrock, nestling close to earth, 
will take 
For dew the tears of my poor home- 
sick heart. 

I'll see, all fancy wrapt, the young wheat 
grow 

Along the sloping ridges ; then I'll know 

''The summer's coming. Happy, happy 

gull, 
Fly on and on through violet dusk! 
Yet hear 
Me as you go : Ah, many a day the dull 
Eegret will come to me! Ah, many 
the tear 
Will dim my eyes that I can hear no 

more 
The dancing feet upon the earthen floor ! 

[81] 



''0 tell my Ireland, bird, going home 
from sea, 
Like a brown-faced fisherman unto his 
mate. 

That I will yearn for her the years to be. 
As if some lover, heart-broken, at the 
gate. 

Waiting his love until his tired eyes 
burn: 

His dead love gone who never will re- 
turn. 

"0 say not: other skies are just as blue 

As hers ; that elsewhere stately rivers 

flow 

To music oceanward ; that the gray dew 

Sweetens a million fields where violets 

blow! 

[82] 



Swift gull, were every land for loveli- 
ness 

As famed as heaven, I'd love my own 
not less." 

When some sweet song we love has died 

away 
"We listen, hearing every note again. 
So Mona fancies, still dark wings play 
Wafting the swift gull o'er the misty 

main. 
When night at last falls o'er the purple 

waves 
She turns from Carrig, hill of kingly 

graves. 



[83] 



TO THE POET 

Sing us a song for the wide world to 
hear, 
Weighted with meaning and moving in 
time; 
One with a lilt to it haunting the ear 
Whose thought billows break on the 
rock of a rime. 

Lift us a song like the wave on the reef 
Bemoaning lost Dead since the ages 
have rolled; 
Not long, for the fire of the feeling is 
brief 
And the word to express it is rarer 
than gold. 

[84] 



Something not written by pedagogue 
law 
With syllables marshalled for critics 
to scan: 
Alas for the trifles with hardly a flaw, 
That never go home to the heart of a 
man I 

Sing us a song like the boom of the sea 
Whose surges have sung with the 
dawning of time. 
Sing us a song for the ages to be, 
And the ages will pardon a lapse in 
the rime. 



[85] 



LINCOLN 

Son of a rugged soil, a rugged clime, 
The clamoring small man wearied thee 
with noise: 
The clamoring small man, servile of his 
time, 
Shook not thy native righteousness, 
thy poise. 

God raised thee out among the growing 
fields, 
And taught thee strength in cold and 
torrid sun. 

[86] 



No weakling thou who wavers and then 
yields, 
And leaves a work of centuries un- 
done. 

God gave thee to this nation in the hour 
Expediency and Eight did beckon 
thee. 
Eight was thy portion, and the millions 
shower 
Their benediction through the years 
to be. 



[87] 



MOTHER OF ART 

Thy Raphael dreaming of an earthly 
face, 
Inspired of thee, a heavenly beauty 

sought ; 
Thy Michaelangelo on marble 
wrought, 
And hewed a Moses of heroic grace; 
Thy sainted Gregory, who mused 
apace. 
Heard angel melodies from heaven 

brought ; 
Thy Dante in his lonely exile caught 
The highest message sung of any race. 

[88] 



Through all the ages they have learned 

of thee, 
The painter, sculptor, singer, poet, — 

aU 
Carved on the roll of immortality. 
These to the inner temple didst thou 

call 
Where Thought sits silent in a place 

apart 
And gives a life, a meaning, unto Art. 



[89] 



IF SORROW COME 

If Sorrow come and knock upon thy 
door, 
Make haste and open to her, though 

she bring 
A summons asking the most precious 
thing 
Of all thy treasures; e'en though never- 
more 

Life wear the roseate splendor once it 
wore; 
Though loves be cleft in twain; yea, 
though she fling 

[90] 



Black dark about thee all the day, or 
sting 
Thy heart like scorpions to the very 
core. 

Christ's feet were bathed by Sorrow at 
the feast; 
Sorrow received His blessed features 
on 
The dolorous way; she followed 
Him beside 
The moonlit sea; beloved of men the 
least, 
He loved her best, set her apart as one 
Worthy to walk beside Him till He 
died. 



[91] 



OUE LADY OF THE DOME 

Star-crowned, the crescent hung below 

thy feet, 

In stormy dark I have beheld thy light 

Far shining. Then I dreaded not the 

sight 

Of haunting shapes that men in darkness 

meet. [greet 

Nor yet less glad thy lighted Dome I 

"When God has flung his jewels o'er 

the night. 
When 'neath the young moon, throned 
in purple height. 
The June fields, wet with dew, are clover 
sweet. 

[92] 



thou, fair Lady, brighter than all thy 

stars, 
Out of thy radiance make my life less 
dark! 

1 do not ask thee morn with rose-red 

bars 
Adown the east ; nor dews, nor singing 

lark. 
No, only night, and vigil, storm and 

stress. 
With thee in thy dear heaven to light 

and bless! 



r931 



MY PRAYER 

God of the day, the sleeping world 
awakes 
And dawn finds millions on a purpose 

bent; 
God of the night, the wasting heat is 
spent 
And stars are trembling over breeze- 
blown lakes; 
God of the sea, no billow ever breaks 
On any shore but follows Thy intent; 
God of the sky, when cloudful and 
storm-rent. 
We think of all Thy suffering for our 
sakes. 

[94] 



God over all, a feeble cry is mine; 
Yet hear in pity as I breathe my 
prayer : 
Teach me to fear Thee ever who art 
just, 
To call Thee Father, knowing Thee be- 
nign, 
To keep Thy image with me every- 
where. 
To copy Thee, remembering I am 
dust. 



[95] 



IN HER EXILE 

Out of my bondage, in the dying day, 
Heart-worn, I seek the joyless tene- 
ment; 
The air is heavy grown with sickening 
scent 
Of underworlds. Nowhere a leaf-strewn 

way, 
Sun-touched and sweet with song, where 
children play. 
Squalor I see ; the blessed twilight rent 
With strange, deep oaths and cries of 
discontent j 
Then over all, a sky of matted gray. 

[96] 



But when you come with healing, winged 
Sleep, 
You waft me over seas where summer 
bloom 
Is on the hedges. Ah, the happy 
thrush 
Pipes to the morn, and all the young 
broods keep 
Down with the shamrocks nestling in 
the gloom! 
I kiss the dewy earth, my heart 
ahush. 



[97] 



THE LEGEND OF THE HAEP 

They fought a great battle 
Long, long years ago 

On the plains of Mag Tured, — 
That's in Ireland, you know. 

The De Danaan invaders. 
With long golden hair. 

Were fighting the blue-eyed 
Formorians there. 

The Formorians were conquered 

And fled from the fray. 

But stole a gold harp 

From the victors away. 
[98] 



Then wept the bard Dagda, 
With locks white as snow: 

''What is victory, chieftains, 
My harp with the foe? 

''What is life, my chieftains. 

When silent is song? 
What is war when the bard 

Bears no gold harp along?" 

Every chief's yellow spear 
Bright flashed to the moon. 

And they swore by the harp 
They would capture it soon. 

A few chosen warriors 

Sped into the night 
With Dagda the harper. 

And sought for the light, — 

[99] 



The light where FormoriaHS 
Made feast in their hall, 

And pledged to the harp 
Where it hung from the wall. 

Light glimmers : all follow, 
But pause by the door, 

And hear the wild pledges 
They pledge o'er and o'er. 

Then Dagda, the white-haired. 

The master of song. 
Calls aloud to his harp. 

And it leaps o'er the throng; 

It leaps to his arms, — 

The child of his soul; 
He plucks at the strings 

And sweet melodies roll. 

[100] 



First a low wail of sorrow 
That wakens up tears: 

The chieftains are silent, 
And rest on their spears. 

Next a wild hymn of gladness ; 

And many and long 
Are the shouts of them all 

'Neath the spell of that song. 

Last the bard plucks the strings 

To music of sleep, 
And there falls such a calm 

As the calm on the deep. 

Every eye waxes heavy, 
Every head sinks to rest ; 

Then Dagda steals home, 
The harp close to his breast. 

[101] 



LAUREEN 

What a time they had to give her a 
name 
That would suit such a baby girl ! 
Some ventured to say they should chris- 
ten her May, 
Or Ethna or Grace or Pearl. 

But auntie spoke up: ''There's a beau- 
tiful name 
Of all Irish names the queen; 
'Tis the pride of the West in the Isle of 
the Blest, 
And the symbol of peace — Laureen." 

[102] 



Sure 'tis only a month and a day or two 
Since the light of the sun she's seen; 

But after a year, if you walk along here, 
Take a look at the young Laureen. 

Faith 'tis big you'll be then, so your 
mother's arms 
Will be tired from the weight of you ; 
But she'll watch you and kiss, and see 
heaven's bliss 
In your child-eyes of Irish blue. 

Yes, you're a wee one now, and your 
baby feet 
Can't race o'er the flowery green; 
But, please God, in a year, if they come 
around here, 
You'll be big for your age, Laureen! 

[103] 



TO THE HOLY KINGS 

The sands of the desert were bare to 
them 
In the light of the Star that shone; 
But the desolate land looked fair to 

them, 
Nor offered the sign of a care to them, 
Who wandered their way alone. 

In the western sky is a light to them, 

Sending its beams afar. 
In their hearts is a song; 'tis so bright 

to them. 
Ah, 'twill never again be night to them. 

In the wake of the guiding Star ! 

[104] 



Men of the East, we pray to you — 
Ye Kings of the long ago, — 

That the Star which shone like the day 
to you 

May lead ns the surest way to you 
Who the King of the Ages know I 



[105] 



A LITTLE KINDLY DEED 

Mary was a little girl about as big as 

you, 
And when her birthday came along she 

wondered what she'd do. 
Papa gave her money and mamma gave 

her more: 
Now, what she was to buy with it she 

pondered o'er and o'er. 

With some she thought she'd have a 
feast for all her little friends. 

And then with some she'd get a doll and 
lots of odds and ends ; 

[106] 



Whatever was left over — she knew there 

would be some — 
Why, that she'd put away, she thought, 

for rainy days to come. 

Now, Mary was not selfish, but this is 

very clear: 
Of birthdays little girls can have one 

only in the year. 
Besides, they always told her it was 

specially her day; 
For mamma called her Mary when she 

came to her in May. 

At last the wished-for morning dawned, 
and you should see the sun ! 

It shone so much more brightly than it 
e 'er before had done ; 

[107] 



And flowers all were nodding salutations 

in the breeze, 
And every bird was singing ''Happy 

birthday!" in the trees. 



She went to town with mamma to buy 
ice-cream and cake 

And oranges and candy, and everything 
they make 

Especially for little girls when birth- 
days come around. 

Then mamma went off shopping when 
for Mary she had found 

The Greek store where the candies were ; 
there told her to remain 

And choose her birthday sweets and 
things till she returned again. 

[108] 



There were sixty kinds of candy and 

thirty kinds of cake, 
And Mary liked them all so well she 

knew not which to take. 

And, then, the ice-cream fountain and 
the fruits of every hue! 

She thought it was the sweetest place; 
and so, I'm sure, would you. 

But while her blue eyes roved about the 
splendors of the store, 

A black-eyed little cripple boy came hob- 
bling through the door. 

His face was very pinched and white, 
and thin and long his hair ; 

His shoes were old and broken, and 
patched up here and there. 

[109] 



' '■ I want some fruit for mamma, ' ' he told 

the waiting man. 
' ' I have a nickel ; here it is ; please give 

me all you can." — 

''A nickel, boy! And fruit so high! 

Your bargain doesn't suit." — 
''But mamma's sick, and doctor said 

she'd have to get some fruit." — 
''I'm sorry for your mamma, boy; and 

sorry, boy, for you; 
But fruit is very high this year : a nickel 

will not do." — 

"Then mamma can't have fruit, I 
guess. ' ' He wiped away a tear. — 

"I'm sorry for your mamma, boy; but 
fruit is high this year." 

[110] 



Now Mary was no longer shy, nor gazed 

about the store, 
But rushed up to the counter which the 

poor boy stood before. 



<'Why, here's my purse of money!" — 

she forced it in his hand ; 
''Just buy your mamma all the fruit 

and cakes and things so grand ; 
For, though it is my birthday, we were 

told the other day 
It's better give to others than from 

others take away." 
He took the purse and looked at her, an 

angel of the skies. 
And tears of tender gratitude were 

streaming from his eyes. 

[Ill] 



He thanked her o 'er and o 'er again, then 
passed through crowded ways 

With fruit for his sick mother that would 
last her many days. 

Now Mary's heart was strangely glad 

for that sweet, kindly deed. 
And in her soul a gentle peace was sown 

like precious seed. 
But mamma when she heard it all wept 

silently apart. 
And took up little Mary's form and held 

her to her heart. 

She kissed that rosy face of hers a hun- 
dred times and more. 

And called her "Treasure!" "Heart's 
delight!" and "Dearest!" o'er 
and o'er. 

[112] 



Her birthday was a grand affair, and 

how her parents smiled 
Each time they looked at Mary, their 

own "hearts' delight,'* their 

child I 



[113] 



MARGEEY MAY 

Yes, dark it is outside on the street, 
Not a sign of the sun all day; 

But what do I care and herself over 
there — 
The light of me, Margery May ! 

the rogue you are, with your coaxing 
smile. 
So you'll sit on my lap this way! 
The blue of the skies is alaugh in your 
eyes — 
The joy of me, Margery May ! 

They tell me 'tis like myself you are : 
To please me they talk that way; 

[114] 



But let them be gone with their carrying 
on — 
The heart of me, Margery May! 

Margery, Margery, sun of my life. 
Yon were sent to me Dolors' Day! 

Queen of doles seven, from your 
throne up in heaven, 
Bless my darling, my Margery May! 



[115] 



THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE 

He clasped her in a fond embrace, — 

The stars were dying out. 
She watched for long, and then her face 

Was clouded o'er with doubt. 

''Cold sea," she moaned, ''you take my 
love 

For all the lonely day! 
Dear winds, be calm ! Sweet stars above, 

Make bright the darksome way!" 

At eve she went back to the shore : 

No star was in the sky; 
Around the rocks the winds made roar, 

The waves were rolling high. 

[116] 



"Ah, cruel sea, that holds my love! 

And fickle winds to me! 
Ah, faithless stars, that hide above, 

Nor light the stormy sea!" 

Grey dawn: a boat cast far on land,- 

Men hurry to the place. 
A woman chafes an icy hand 

And kisses a white face. 



[117] 



LADY DAY IN IRELAND 

Through the long August day, mantled 

blue with a sky of Our Lady, 

They are there at the well from the 

dawn till the sea birds go home ; 

And the trees bending down with broad 

leaves offer spots that are shady. 

Where the heart is at rest, sighing 

prayers till the shadows are come. 

The brown beads and the crucifix pass in 
procession through fingers 
That are pale as the snow or are hard- 
ened from labor and pain. 

[118] 



In each Ave they whisper the deep Celtic 
tenderness lingers, 
Like a sweet phrase in song that is 
echoed and echoed again. 

Marching down the white road with the 
sun in the noon of his splendor 
Are the children, with joy in the blue 
of their innocent eyes ; 
In their hearts is a song, breaking forth 
into words that are tender, 
Unto her with the gold of the stars and 
the blue of the skies. 

In the still summer air there's a chorus 
of minstrelsy breaking. 
There are flashes of gold with a flutter 
and waving of wings : 

[ 119 ] 



Mary's birds are they, come with, the 
dawn, all the green woods forsak- 
ing, 
Every heart in them breaking for love 
with the message it brings. 

Through the calm August day, with Our 
Lady's blue sky far above them, 
And beyond the grey mountains where 
slumbers the Irish green sea, 
There they speak to her, weep while they 
pray to her, beg her to love them, 
Till beyond the bright stars where 
their home and their treasure 
shall be. 



[120] 



ST. PATRICK'S TREASURE 

Called son by many lands, 

Thou art a father unto one. 
Of all these mothers claiming thee, 
By honored titles naming thee. 
We ask : Where is thy priceless birth- 
right gone? 

That blessed faith of thine, 

They mothering thee have sold. 
But she, thy daughter dutiful. 
Has kept thy treasure beautiful 
Through many sorrows in her heart of 
gold. 

[121] 



THE SOUL OP THE SHAMROCK 

Plucked from her earth at the brink of 
day, 
Every leaf a-drip with the mountain 

dew, 
What vine can match that emerald 

hue? 
What rose is half so sweet as you? 
Plucked out of Ireland's heart away, 
Green Shamrock! 

Beyond the seas by a trembling hand, 
The leaves are upgathered one by one : 
The green of their mountain home is 
gone, 

[122] 



And the dew the sunbeams flashed 

upon, — 

Is your soul fled home to your own dear 

land, 

Brown Shamrock? 

Yes, your soul is fled home to your Inis 
Fail, 
Athirst for the dew of her morning 

sky I 
Fled home where the thrush sings wild 

and high. 
Where daisies like stars on June fields 
lie, 
To roam with the fairies through grove 
and dale, 

Sweet Shamrock! 

Symbol of Erin, 'tis many the one 
Will be glad to-day at sight of you ! 

[123] 



Will muse on the hills their childhood 

knew, 
Will kiss your dead leaves for Ire- 
land, too! 
And their love will go back where your 
soul is gone, 

Dead Shamrock! 



[124] 



TO A DEAD PRIEST 
(M. J. R.) 

You, laboring long and patiently, 

Aweary grew at last ; 
Then sank to rest so silently 

We scarcely knew you past. 
Gentle your ways, kindly your heart, 

You loved the simple things ; 
In quiet joys you took a part, 

Nor relished murmurings 
Of envious spirits; ne'er your tongue 

An idle gossip told 
Of any brother. You lived among 

A few friends made of old. 

[125] 



You joyed in summer sun and breeze, 

And calm of starry sheen, 
And young Spring clothing all the 
trees 

At earliest dawn with green. 



Men say the dead are all forgot 

Once they are resting low ; 
That one short, narrow earthen plot, 

'er which wild grasses grow, 
Hides them from lingering memory. 

Not all the treasured dead 
Thus pass and are no more to be ; 

A few still hear the tread 
Their footsteps made in days of yore. 

Their long-loved voices, too. 
Leave echoes when the song is o'er. 

Their generous hearts, as true 

[126] 



As gold, fire-tried, can never rust. 

The good that sink in sleep, 
Their bones may crumble unto dust — 

Their loves will always keep. 

You, laboring long and silently, 

Aweary grew at last ; 
But here your immortality 

Is anchored sure and fast. 
Time and time's dole of pain and fret 

Are fled like starless night ; 
But you, grown ever young, have met 

The Vision and the Light. 



[127] 



THE LIGHT OF THEIR LIFE 

Mother, they lie in the deep, 
Or out in the wind-swept plains. 

What matters how long or where they 
sleep ? 
The Light of their Life remains. 

Mother, the Light of their life, 
They died with their eyes to thee ! 

What matters how: by rope, by knife? 
Or sunk in the weedy sea? 

Mother, thy nameless dead 

Are abroad in the houseless plains ! 

But the God of their anguish is over- 
head 

And the Light of their Life remains ! 
[128] 



THE PERFECT PEACE 

Tiny hands, a chubby face, 

Wayward curls no brush can comb; 
Playing with sand in a sunny place 

Beyond the gate of a cottage home. 

Little feet in the shifting sand, 
Stray not far from the cottage gate ! 

Follow the wave of the beckoning hand, 
List to the voice that bids thee wait ! 

Two blue eyes, so still, so deep, 
They hide more meanings than the sea. 

With silent night comes the hush of 
sleep 
And tired lids seal the mystery. 

[129] 



King on the throne of a mother's breast, 
Fed on the love of a mother's kiss, 

Where, but beyond in God's own rest, 
Is found more perfect peace than this ? 



[130] 



THE PERFECT SERVICE 

God gives us each a little work to do — 

Oh ! do it with a will ! 
Nor murmur one regret the whole day 

through, 
Because the duty given unto you 

Seems lowly to fulfill. 

Whether 'neath torrid sun in harvest 
field, 
Amid the yellow grain, 
You reap and gather in the rich, ripe 

yield; 
Whether in forest tall the axe you 
wield, 
You labor not in vain. 

[131] 



If, buried in the ditches dark and deep, 

You lift the heavy clay. 
Repine not ! Night will come and bring 

you sleep 
And gentle breathing; and fatigue will 
keep 
Disturbing dreams away. 

Render as perfect service as you can, 

Heeding not What but How. 
In God's great mind a king is but a man, 
Fniing a throne in His eternal plan, 
A crown upon his brow. 

No toil is lowly to the mind of God: 

Singer and king and sage. 
He with the grimy face, he who must 

plod, 
Whose hot sweat drips upon the burning 
sod, 
Are paid eternal wage. 

[1321 



Glory forever to the God of Eight 

Ye toiling sons proclaim! 
And this your prayer through busy 

hours of light, 
And this your dream through silent 
hours of night — 
Blessed be His Sacred Name ! 



[133] 



KNOCKANARE 

I know the bogs back in Knockanare : 
'Tis lonesome they are, that I'll tell 

you true; 
There's ne'er a green bush in miles of 

the view, 
Nor a daisy to lift up the heart in you. 
lonesome, lonesome Knockanare! 

'Tis always raining in Knockanare: 
The mists they hide the sun in the sky, 
The tears they hide the light in your 

eye. 
Ah, 'tis glad you'd be to say good-bye 

To misty, misty Knockanare ! 

[134] 



I know the cabins in Knockanare : 
The doors are small and the windows 

few, 
The roofs are old so the rain comes 

through, [too. 

The cold wind moans in the chimneys 

rainy, rainy Knockanare ! 

1 know the people of Knockanare : 

There's never a smile on a single face. 
They haven't the airy heart of the 

race. 
The light of them dies in the dark of 

the place. 
gloomy, gloomy Knockanare ! 

Poor, wasting hearts back in Knock- 
anare! 
Your ears are deaf from the fall of 
the rain, 

[135] 



Your eyes are blind from looking in 

vain 
For the smile of the sun in the sky- 
again, 
In dreary, dreary Knockanare! 

But God loves the people of Knock- 
anare ; 
Believe what I say, for I tell you true. 
Their sighs are many, their smiles are 

few. 
"Sure God is so good," still they'll 
answer you, 
''To bother at all about Knockanare!" 



[136] 



THE HEART OF THE WIND 

The wind's tread is soft: lie never 
crushes the lily that blows ; 

His sandals are sweet with the perfume 
they lift from the heart of the rose. 

He eases the fevered pulse, brings bloom 

to the pallid face; 
To the toiler hot at the furnace front he 

carries a grace. 

In the summer dawn he quickens the 

meadow lark into song, 
He shakes the dew from drowsy poppies, 

sweeping along. 

[137] 



When he glides o'er the ripening grain 
it rolls at his touch like the sea ; 

The woods are his organ with notes as 
deep as eternity. 

He's abroad on the hills at the warm 
noon hour, when the sun on high 

Shines like a spotless Host from the 
altar blue of the sky. 

He glides along the valleys where violets 

dream in the shade, 
Or beats about dark caves with the roll 

of cannonade. 

He rushes upon the waters, they leap on 

the rocks at his lash; 
Or he bounds away o'er treeless plains 

at hurricane dash. 

[138] 



The heart of the wind? Who knows? 

To me 'tis a heart that's strange: 
I've felt its caress as soft as a child's, 

and seen it change 

To the rough hand of the man who, 
weary grown, loves you no more, 

Who never kisses you now when he bids 
you good-bye at the door, 

Nor stops to look back through the mist 
in his eyes as he used to of yore. 

The wind's tread is soft as the panther 

that steals on his prey ; 
But he changes a thousand times like a 

wayward child at play. 

For he will caress you and coax you 
away to a mountain that 's steep, 

And then his heart will grow wild and 
he'll blow you into the deep. 

[139] 



Often he speaks in a whisper, and often 

his voice is a roar; 
He has saved a million lives, and 

wrecked a million more. 

The wind's heart ! I have wooed it long 

on the houseless plain. 
And when my head was afire I know it 

eased my pain, 
For I caught in its breath the smell of 

the salt from the rolling main. 

The wind's heart, like the heart of the 
world, is working His will : 

A peace is over it now, to-morrow its 
roarings may fill 

The Sea ; but He is abroad on the waters 
to bid them be still. 

[140] 



THE VISION OF THE NIGHT 

Clouds, like angel wings, sail under the 
blue, 
Half revealing angel faces; 
Stars, like angel eyes, are peering 
through 
From the depths of cloudless spaces. 

They gaze at God in a manger, glory- 
stripped, 
A Babe in His Mother's keeping! 
The crest of His rock-hewn cave is 
tipped 
With their light, while the world is 
sleeping. 

[ 141 ] 



And Thou art God, infant-limbed, pa- 
tiently still. 
Come out of Thy measureless glory ! 
And Thou hast lifted us out of the 
depths, until 
We seem like the gods of story! 

Infinite God, made human by infinite 
love, 4 

See the wings of Night outspreading ! 
See the myriad eyes of Night from their 
heaven above 
A golden radiance shedding! 



[142] 



THE lEISH JUNE 

See the daisies shining in fields all 
over, 
Hear the young thrush singing! 
From the meadow near by catch the 
smell o' the clover 
That the wind is bringing. 

Back in the west hear the deep, full 
river. 
The heart in him beating. 
The reeds by the side of him toss and 
quiver, 
The breezes greeting. 

[143] 



The wheat so tall in the ridges growing 

Will soon be earing ; 
And look at the stalks since the April 
sowing, 

With their blossoms peering! 

Now thanks be to God for the blue sky 
bending 
So bright above us ! 
We know from the promising days He 's 
sending 
He continues to love us. 



[144] 



EARLY MASS IN IRELAND 

The sloe is on the thorn 

This holy Sunday morn, 
The corncrake is hidin' in the grass. 

There's the bell within the steeple, 

Sends a message to the people 
To be kneelin' when the priest begins the 
Mass. 

The scythe is pnt away, 

An' the sun in heaven this day 

Is gildin' all the meadows that you pass. 
Hurry through the chapel gates. 
Sure 'tis God Himself who waits 

For the people when the priest begins 
the Mass ! 

[145] 



The dew is on the corn 
This blessed Sunday morn, 
The daisies dance before me on the 
grass. 
How my old heart beats with feelin', 
'Tis so full of joy when kneelin' 
Near the railin' when the priest begins 
the Mass! 

Eockin' gently to and fro, 
Sayin' sweet old prayers I know. 
On the beads that through my tremblin' 
fingers pass. 
Don't ye smUe at me, my dears. 
If I can 't keep back the tears. 
Near the railin' when the priest begins 
the Mass. 



[146] 



NOVEMBER 

Gray is tlie sky this November weather, 
Dead are the grasses that used to 
grow. 
'Tis bleak, for the wind is about on the 
heather, 
With never a tree for a mile or so. 

But a man can dream when the wind is 
wailing. 
And in the hush of it look on high, 
"Where the troubled clouds down the sky 
are sailing. 
Till they vanish out of his life and die. 

[147] 



'Tis tlie dusk of the day, and the night 
will follow; 
The rooks for their forest home are 
bound. 
Hear the wind 's swish through the hedge 
in the hollow! 
Hear the dead leaves whirling round 
and round! 

A man has his dreams this November 
weather, 
Out in the dusk where the chill winds 
blow. 
Sweet is the smell from the heart of the 
heather — 
A fragrance remembered from long 
ago! 



[148] 



THE SECOND SPEING 

Comes the Spring with quickening 

breath 
To that lowly place of death 
Up the crumbling walls the slender ivy 
creeps ; 
Every bud has life again, 
From the healing of the rain, 
Where he sleeps. 

Summertime, the thistle blooms 
In among the tottering tombs. 
Unseen beneath the weeds the violet 
keeps ; 

[149] 



As the great oaks sway and swing, 
World-old Eequiems they sing, 
Where he sleeps. 

Down among the grasses tall, 
Saffron leaves in Autumn fall. 

In the damp 'neath fallen stones the 
lizard creeps. 
The tombs are bent and hoary, 
Time has blotted out their story, 

Where he sleeps. 

In the Winter, night winds roll. 

Like the wailing of a soul 
That a vision of the Glory vainly seeks. 

In the sky a murky cloud 

Hides the pale moon like a shroud. 
Where he sleteps. 

[150] 



Memory goes there all the year, 
Winter's gloom, or Summer's cheer. 

Where the thistle blossoms and the liz- 
ard creeps. 
Then will come the Second Spring, 
And the dust will wake and sing 

Where he sleeps. 



[151] 



CREELA BAY 

'Tis a mile away to Creela town, 
Where the river runs beside; 

And you can watch the seaweed cots 
Sail up the salty tide. 

When the wind is fresh of an early hour, 
With the tang of the ocean gray, 

Go sailing down from Creela town. 
And out to Creela Bay. 

For Creela Bay is blue and deep. 
With a moaning sea behind ; 

And beyond the sea, who knows what be, 
Except the raging wind? 

[152] 



Ah, come and stop at Creela town! — 

'Tis easy to find the way, — 
And sit on the hill when the day is still, 

For the sight of Creela Bay. 

You'll have a joy for the after years. 
So you'll stop on the street and say: 

' ' 'Tis hot out here, but never you fear, 
I can dream of Creela Bay. ' ' 



[153] 



GOLDEN JUBILEE WISH 

Fair School, may every golden year that 
shines 
In thy bright crown of fifty, symbolize 
A worthy service; like long-cellared 
wines, 
May Time but mellow thee ; may lovely 
skies 

Shine over thee in Spring, when all the 
days 
Are busy keeping count of peeping 
buds ; 

[154] 



In Summer, when the fitful sunlight 
plays 
Across tree shadows in the leafy 
woods ; 

In pensive Autumn when the smell of 
leaves, 
Late fallen, makes the dreamer's heart 
beat fast 
For happy days thick-strewn with 
memories. 
And may thy sky be fair when late, at 
last, 

Comes Winter, spreading white his 

shroud of snow. 
Bright days be thine through seasons 

still untold, 
And may thy sunset be of rose and 

gold! 

[155] 



THE CEY OF THE HEAET 

'Tis lonesome here and home so far 
away, — 
Here on the plains with only memo- 
ries 
Of golden days, when like a bird of prey 
I flew about the hills and caught the 
breeze. 
Young was I then, and Sorrow had not 
doled 
Her legacy of sighs and heartaches 
too. 
I had a father ; he was brave and bold, 
Yet gentle as your sister is to you. 

[1561 



I had a mother ; she was young and tall, 
With large, dark eyes. Together we 
would play 
Above the daisies; she would sing, and 
call 
Each passing bird by name; then she 
would say 
Some words about the flowers that come 

and go 
In Ireland, but never seem to grow 
In far-away "Wyoming. 

Have you sat silent at the close of day 
And looked across the wide plains all 
forlorn ? 
Ah! if you have, there is no need to 
say 
All my wild longings when my heart 
is torn. 

[157] 



My father died a-sudden in the field 
One harvest day : they said 'twas heart 
disease, 
As if the knowledge would some comfort 
yield 
To her whose widowed heart no tear 
might ease! 
A little, and she followed him to God 
Like some fair flower that droops in 
summer's sun. 
And now together 'neath the dark brown 
sod 
Of Irish earth they sleep, in death still 
one; 
While I, the houseless one, from year 

to year 
Follow the free herds of the plains out 
here 

In far-away Wyoming! 

[158] 



Have yon felt yearning for a father's 
care? 
Have you felt thirsting for a mother's 
tears'? 
Then you must know, and surely you will 
share 
My yearning and my thirsting down 
the years, 
Alone out here, where God seems far 
away, 
Where the sweet prayers you know 
are seldom said. 
Where Sunday seems like any other day, 
Where the same endless round of life 
is led. 
I miss the prayerful greeting when men 
come, 
I miss their prayerful parting when 
they go; 

[159] 



1 hear no Angelus at set of sun 

Calling the heart to prayer with chim- 
ing low. 
Sometimes I say : ' ' Dear Grod, let me 

die 
Here where my every breath is like a 
sigh, 

In far-away Wyoming ! ' ' 

I've lain upon the ground a summer 
night, 
When every star was leaping in the 
sky, 
When the moon softened all the land 
with light. 
And dreamed myself at home again. 
Each sigh 
Of wind brought back a golden memory 
From long-lost vistas of my boyhood 
days. 

[160] 



I dreamed tlie daisies shone in front of 
me, 
The shamrocks grew beside untrodden 
ways, 
Forever faithful and forever green, — 
The symbol of the race. Then I 
awoke : 
The shamrocks and the daisies were un- 
seen, 
And all the splendor of the vision 
broke ! 
A thousand dreams have stood before 

my view. 
To vanish, vanish — never to come true. 
In far-away Wyoming. 

"Some day!" my heart pants in its 
feverish beat; 
' ' Some day ! ' ' my eyes say, filled with 
hopeful tears. 

[161] 



''Some day will turn the exile's wander- 
ing feet!" 
Says Memory, looking back across the 
years. 
The wheat will all be yellow on the land, 
The shamrocks will lie close beneath 
the grass, 
The tide that scatters seaweed on the 
strand 
Will sing "a thonsa^nd welcomes" 
when I pass. 
Dear God, to see the green hills of the 

child, 
The man prays here upon the houseless 
wild, 

In far-away Wyoming I 



[162] 



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